eidolons
by the Ambassador
Summary: The images are mirrors; in them we see our own faces. Drabble collection.


A/n: Final Fantasy poetic ramblings and me go together like gunblades and ammo. Naturally, getting hold of Thirteen would lead to some.

I don't own Final Fantasy. (And personally, I think attempts to _own_ Light and her pack would be rather insensitive and tasteless. Mind the company you keep!)

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><p><strong>eidolons<strong>

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><p>Snow is divided against himself. The younger sister calls out, "Go forth," the elder cautions, "Not yet." Which tells true? Both and neither. There is a third way and he must find it, walking on a path narrow and slippery with crystal ice. He holds the scales; all things are in the balance. The weight of a feather, either way, could topple him; still he walks the tightrope, unafraid. He has set his course by the North Star, and he will travel it to the end, to bring the summer of the world, that turns the ice into living water.<p>

Lightning rides the sky with footfalls of thunder. It is dark, dark dawn, and the blood of the sacrifice is redder than the petals of the rose. The petals of the rose are her tears of sorrow at the judgement she dispenses, yet she will not stay her hand. What must be, must be. The horse she rides is her gallows. The poison in her veins is her power. The blood that steeps her robe is her wisdom. Grim and grey she comes, bringing justice. In her wake is desolation. Yet after she passes, then come the rains. Out of true and final death comes life anew, and Severity's child is Mercy; this she knows as she hangs upside-down on the cross of the world.

Brynhildr hungers. All fire needs fuel to burn, and this is the fire that will burn the whole world. All that is weak or petty, dishonourable or unworthy-all this will fall away and turn to ash. Sazh in her fires is wood and coal and gasoline; he offers up his life for her to eat. To burn in the fires of the Valkyrie is not to die. It is to live-to share in her might, her awful triumph, her ravenous desire. Wheels screech and skid, engines roar with laughter mad as the Sun. Tintinnabulation is the drum that is the heart. In her glory he will perish. In her flame he will burn eternal, white heat brighter than magnesium.

Fang flies in the dark, above the waters, in a night with no possibility of dawn. Out of the ruins of a people she comes; out of the ruins of a world. The last of the light goes with her, guttering, fading. Still she does not perish. She snarls at the darkness, at the things moving in it. Fang loves the light. It is her breath. And while there is breath in her body, her spear is drawn to defend it. She will not surrender in the face of overwhelming odds. She will not surrender though the cause is hopeless. She will kick and scream as she goes down; and maybe, though she dies, her claws will rip her Enemy's flesh in a mortal wound. Do not corner a Dragon...

With faith and love, Hope endures; he is the castle, the shield-wall, the fort. The clank and whirr of cogs and gears are church bells, and these are the swords that are ploughshares and this is the foundation-stone. The stone the builders rejected becomes the cornerstone. "I go on, I go on," it is singing, "I am, I serve. I am the rock you may set your feet upon, I am the strength that does not falter." It is the defender of men that sings thus, and neither pain nor shame nor fear nor doubt can leave a mark on that shining armour. "All shall be well," sings Hope, "all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."

In Oerba the gardens bloom; but who is there to tend them? Vanille is there, with her hundred gentle hands, stroking each soft petal. The sand-dunes, like Cie'th, encroach on the living land's borders; Vanille's hands are the roots of the marram-grass, binding down the dust, transmuting unloving crystal into fertile soil. The sea is full of tears, and the salt is poison at the roots; but Vanille has fifty mouths, and out of each one flows a river of sweet fresh water. Thieves come in the night, over the garden wall, to reap where they did not sow; Vanille cries to her Mother, and her scream of outrage shatters the earth, and into Her depths they fall. In a stone womb she sleeps; fear her awakening. For her loving heart is the most terrible thing of all.


End file.
